Small black triforce tattoo on the wrist of a pale arm, raised with the fingers curled loosely above it.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small triforce on a wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small solid black triangle sits on the wrist, with three smaller triangles cut into its centre to form the triforce symbol. The tattoo is crisp and sits against pale skin, with the hand raised and fingers curled above it. The warm brown background and soft natural light keep the focus on the small mark.

Forearm Triangle

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dilys Okonedo had run the lost property hatch at Marsh Cross for nineteen years, and she knew the difference between things people forgot and things they left behind on purpose. The brass key ring came in on a wet Tuesday, tucked inside a bus timetable. Three small triangles were punched into its face, one above two, and the top one had been worn smooth by a thumb.

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The tag on the bag said Platform 4, the 7.12 to Carrow, and nobody came for it. Dilys turned the ring under the lamp. Someone had scratched a row of fine marks along its edge, a tally of sorts. She counted them twice. Eleven. Eleven Tuesdays of trains missed, or eleven times a person had decided not to go home.

On the twelfth Tuesday a young man in a damp coat stood at the hatch and asked, before she had said a word, whether anything with a triangle on it had turned up. He said his grandmother had owned the ring. She had sold her house in the spring, moved north to be near the sea, and left him a box of keys to nothing in particular. Dilys asked him which triangle was the brave one. He looked at her as if she were mad, then pointed to the bottom left, the one that held the other two up.

She handed the ring across the counter and wrote a twelfth mark on the ledger beside the number. Outside, the 7.12 pulled out of Platform 4 with its lights already on, and for the first time in years Dilys did not watch it go. She watched the young man run for the footbridge with the ring closed in his fist, and she folded the empty tag into her cardigan pocket, where it stayed for the rest of her shift.